SD2411. Verse by William Surtees Cook
Listed in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 28, 361.
Ob. Nov. 23. 1860
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Oh, think that while your’re weeping here,
Her hand a golden harp is stringing,
And with a voice serene and clear,
Her ransom’d soul, with out a tear,
Her savior’s praise is singing!
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And think that all her pains are fled,
Her toils and sorrows gone for ever;
While he, whose blood for her was shed,
Has placed upon his servant’s head
A crown that fadeth never–
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Altham Archive.
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